I began my college search early, after much persuasion from
my mother. She insisted that I needed to visit universities beginning in eighth
grade after I had shown her a list of twenty-five schools from Boston to DC. I
suppose she worried that my college search would mirror my search for a
Communion dress in the second grade. She took me to six stores, where I
constantly complained that no store sold the perfect non-gaudy, non-flowery
completely white dress I had envisioned. Maybe she also feared that I would only like schools that would not accept me. To this, my father, ever the optimist, always
responded: “Beth, stop worrying. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” So,
a few years ago, my mother and I traveled to New England, where we visited
Yale. We dragged our suitcases from the parking lot to the front door of the
hotel, a Marriot across from a Mr. Chicken where we observed several drug
deals—all just a block from Yale’s campus. As we approached the door, I warily
reported to my mother, “Look. You need a pass-code to enter the hotel. Nothing
good happens at a hotel where you need to enter with a pass-code.” Once she
assured me that no one would murder us in our sleep, we left the hotel and
walked toward Yale’s bookstore, a grey building set against the grey Spring New
England sky. We walked at a brisk pace as a homeless man appeared behind me,
his run-down bike rolling beside him. Suddenly, he screamed at me in his
psychotic voice, “Going to Yale, you super white b****?” My mother grabbed me
by the arm and dragged me into the Barnes and Noble, muttering to herself that
she would never send me there, that much-too-liberal school. I sighed, for I, already
a sophomore, had yet to cross the bridge my dad had assured me existed. In
fact, I deeply worried that I would not find a school I even liked. However, I need not have fretted, as I
encountered a bridge on my last college visit to Penn. My cousins, aunt, and
uncle joined us on the campus at nightfall and we walked around admiring the
dark sky, the brick buildings, and the trees which hung over our heads. Few
people joined us as we walked down the winding paths which disappeared from
sight onto the other side of the bridge that separated the two ends of the campus.
When we reached the bridge, my seven-year-old cousin James ran towards it,
grabbed my hand, and looked up at me with his blue eyes. “Do you think we
should cross?” He asked me, his eyes searching my face. I turned around and
looked back at the rest of the group, who walked a bit behind us. In that
moment, I smiled, for I had found the bridge I needed to cross. I imagined that on the other side, beyond the
cement, a tiny figure would appear and gradually would enlarge until I could
make out its features and recognize my face. I could see that person walking with
friends on a quiet night, never worrying whether she would cross the bridge
when she reached it. She never attached too much personal meaning to that
bridge, never realized it could connect her past and future. She never trembled in its presence like Gatsby as he reaches out to the
unattainable green light. She merely saw a bridge, a concrete structure, which
connected two ends of campus.
Nevertheless, I looked back down at my cousin and squeezed his hand,
realizing that fantasy could never exist. Even if the school accepts me, I will always stand at the top of the bridge and wonder whether I should take a risk, ignore the shouts of hoodlums and the worry that the pass-code will not protect me while I attempt to attain the unattainable. “Yes, James,” I told him, “Let’s cross.”
It wasn't only wickedness and scheming that made people unhappy, it was confusion and misunderstanding; above all, it was the failure to grasp the simple truth that other people are as real as you. -Ian McEwan
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Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
The Drowning, MVP Donkey with Horns
Today, like Gatsby, I put on my bathing suit, jumped into
the pool of the AP English discussion and, to make a long story short, drowned.
I did not completely realize the irony of the moment until Ms. Serensky began
begging Elliot, my writing partner, to jump in and save me. Of course I failed
miserably when discussing Gatsby’s participation in a sport/athletic pastime.
We all have heard the story of my swim team failure. But, I fail in much more
than that. For example: everyone remembers the seventh grade football unit.
Some students triumphed and others struggled, but few failed as miserably as I.
I struggled so severely that while playing football, students upheld one basic
rule: Do not, under any circumstances, pass the ball to Meghan Judge. Despite
that rule, I somehow found myself with the ball toward the end of the period
during a tied game of football. In a
state of utter panic, I threw the ball randomly, hoping my teammates would
somehow cross the gym from where I stood alone and catch it. Unfortunately, I
threw the ball to a member of the other team, who proceeded to run and score
the winning touchdown. The other team voted me their MVP. I often look back on
that gym class. I remember how I laughed and thanked her and went home and jokingly
shared my great achievement with others; I even shared the experience years
later with my interviewer for Johns Hopkins. I suppose, for some strange
reason, I value these failures. I constantly repeat my memories as the other
team’s MVP, as the last place swimmer, as the girl who also shared in
discussion last year that McCourt compared a priest to a donkey with horns. Maybe
I value these moments because they taught me the humor in imperfection and the
need to keep moving forward, to save myself from drowning. So, we all must
score the other team’s winning touchdown and drown in discussion. We must teach
ourselves to not depend on our writing partners to jump in and save us, even
though Elliot did so quite well. So, join Gatsby and me in the pool. Make sure
to bring your flotation device.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Pygmies in the Mist: Part Deux
I come from a family of amateur writers. From my great-uncle
Bud to my aunt Francine, a poet 20 years in the making, my family has striven for generations to join the ranks of Fitzgerald and Hemingway. I clearly recall
one of my first experiences with the unappreciated writing of my relatives. My
family and I dug through boxes in my Grandmother’s house which held the belongings
of the deceased Uncle Bud, a World War II veteran who enjoyed embellishing the
truth. As I dug through the medals and photographs and pages of old
manuscripts, I came upon a bound story with an intriguing title: “ Pygmies in
the Mist.” Apparently, he had unsuccessfully attempted to publish the story, a
tale of an African tribe of pygmies attempting to escape a cloud of mist. My
grandmother swears publishers had not selected it as they simply could not
recognize creativity and genius. She, too, likes to embellish. My grandmother,
however, trumps “ Pygmies” with her own novel which has yet to grace the
shelves. She and her reverend joined creative forces to produce the precursor to
Fifty Shades of Grey (a la science fiction). Critics (my mother) found
the novel “offensive, yet exploratory.” On
the other end of the spectrum, my Aunt Francine writes an annual Christmas poem which serves as her crowning achievement of the year. Surprisingly, the public has
celebrated my Aunt Francine’s work the most; she published her work in a
Christian children’s magazine and received $25--four years ago. As each
generation of my family has seen its own amateur writer, I suppose my family,
particularly my grandmother, has prepared me to realize that role. When I visited
my grandmother as a four-year-old, I would sit at the kitchen table with her as
she drank her "splash" of wine and we would talk. As we chatted, she would make up
tales of a little girl who lived in New York City. She gushed over the little girl's life and how she wrote, painted, and sold hats in Central Park. She shook her head when she shared that the little girl walked on
the grates in the sidewalk and would fall down them. Her face lit up magically when she told of how the little girl turned into a swan one afternoon. After she told me each tale, I would smile up at her and tell her,
“Someday, Grandma, I will write the stories and you will illustrate them.
Everyone in the world should hear our stories.” In response, she would always
gaze down at me sweetly and tell me that she truly believed me. We shall see. Maybe, someday, my family will finally produce
a Hemingway or a Fitzgerald. Until then, we must navigate the literary world
like my Uncle Bud’s pygmies, constantly searching for the place in the forest
where the sun shines and the mist lifts and we can finally see.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Just South of Heaven
We drove toward the development at nine in the morning on a
beautiful spring day in Wilmington, North Carolina. My family had arrived
earlier that week to tour houses and to investigate different communities in
the city, so we could better choose a location once we moved there. We
approached the development cautiously, hesitating at the tall black fence with
barbed wire that stood before layers of dense trees. Two gates marked the
entrance where security guards waved Mercedes SUVs and BMWs into the gated
community. My brother balked at the community’s security: “It looks like they
have prepared for the zombie apocalypse”. The real estate agent, who sat with
us in the car, laughed as the security guards waved her through the gates and she
welcomed us to the community just south
of Heaven—Landfall. As she drove down the well-manicured lane to the
welcome center, she reminded us of Landfall’s heavenly facilities: two golf
courses, a country club, personal docks, and an Olympic size swimming pool.
Feigning enthusiasm, my family left the car and hopped onto a golf cart to begin
the tour. The real estate agent drove
incredibly slowly, probably to encourage us to relish this sheltered utopia. Brick
houses seemingly smiled at us and the multiple landscapers waved as we
continued down the street. Women who had
already showered and applied their makeup wearing designer clothes walked out
to retrieve the morning paper while waving away. My mother scoffed in hushed
tones: “These women have definitely had work done. Why do these people keep
waving?” I shrugged as I too felt confused, but I waved back to a gaggle of women
strutting down the street while calling to their neighbors to join them for
brunch at the Country Club. As I sat in the golf cart, waving uncharacteristically,
I could not help but wonder if when I had entered Landfall, I had left the real
world. Looking back on my encounter with
this rare community, I cannot help but compare it to the two Eggs in F. Scott
Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Like the islands, Landfall does not sit
atop perfect land as lakes and forests wind through it; nature misshapes the land
which the community attempts to perfect (5). The people themselves live
fantastically in their palaces with their BMW cars and other material possessions.
But, more so than anything, I find myself “perpetually confused” when observing
Landfall (5). Do the residents truly
care when they wave incessantly? Does knowing the business of every neighbor
truly make them happy? How much does the plastic surgeon of Landfall make? Have
the people in the community ever actually ventured past the ten-foot-tall gates
to realize true reality? I suppose, to them, they live in the real world, in
their own strange slice of Heaven, or at least, just south of it. As for the answers to rest the questions, I
will let you know, as we may move there this summer.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Love Thy Fence
Police cars zoomed in
the distance, their sirens piercing the crisp summer air. Birds flew from the
trees, their wings fluttering as they soured into the sky, overlooking nosy
neighbors peering from behind their fences. A short, stout police man parked
abruptly in front of my neighbor’s house and quickly stepped out of the car. He
then signaled to his partner, a slimmer man, who stepped out of the passenger
side nonchalantly. They strutted over to my neighbor’s door, rapped on it
several times, and peered into her small living room, yelling, “Police!” As
silence met their call, one man walked to the back door. Suddenly, my neighbor,
her hair flying behind her, dashed from her front door as the other officer
cantered forward, wrestled her to the ground, and slapped handcuffs on her. The next morning, my parents built a fence. My
father hammered wood polls into the ground while my mother rolled evergreen
wire around the property. They planted trees that have since grown to ten feet
along the border of our property. Then, they clipped the police blotter description
of our neighbor’s crime (holding her boyfriend-of-the-week and his children “hostage”
by locking them in a room) and hung it with a plaque of their favorite proverb:
“Love your neighbor, but do not pull down your fence”. This fence and my parents’
obsession, both a blessing and a curse, overwhelm and restrict me, like
Barthelme’s balloon, always protecting me from harm--and from the neighbors. Even
though some days, like the day of my neighbor’s second arrest for theft of
credit card numbers, I feel a “sheltered, warmed” feeling, most days, I feel “constrained”
(3). Most days, I find myself dreaming of taking risks, scaling the fence and escaping my
parents’ secure little world. Yet, I still find myself building internal
fences, never letting down my own guard, rarely leaving my comfort zone. One
day, I suppose, I may scale the fence; but I know that inevitably I will reconstruct
that barrier, forgetting the constraint, only remembering the warm brown and
evergreen hues of the fence my parents simply loved.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
An Unlikely Pilgrimage
I vaguely recall my emotional state. I had just turned
the final page of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry after a day of
reading and had begun to descend into the emotional chaos of post-inspirational-book
disorder. Despair, profound happiness, obsession, and an overpowering emptiness
overwhelmed me. In my state, I managed to reach into my desk and retrieve a pen
and a note card, flip through the book, and copy down my favorite quote: “It was
hard to understand a little and then walk away”. Setting my book down, I took the
note card and hung it on the wall right next to my mirror—my quote wall—with a
piece of tape. The quote joined the 41 other poems, quotes, and lyrics. As I stood
back and read the familiar words on each card, I could not convince myself
to look away. However, I reminded myself I never truly distance myself from quotes; I never really look away. In fact, I probably read more quotes daily than I see
people. Every day, hundreds of fragments of sentences resonate with me, if only
for a moment. 42 excerpts hang beside my mirror. One quote greets me every
morning in English class. I told myself that my quotes always stay with me because they allow retrace my steps, return to their familiar
words when I cannot find my way. Whether admiring the wall or not, I can still revisit them because they provide wisdom and
comfort. They help me understand a little about myself and my past while pointing me in the direction of my future. Leaving the wall does not mean I have to walk away. A while after I re-read
the note cards, I convinced myself to leave the quote wall and placed the book back on the bookshelf.
The emptiness still lingered, but quotes flooded my head to fill the void. As
always, old memories resurfaced: images of me, as a young girl, toiling with
contributing in class in elementary school, middle school, high school; visions
of me, a bit older, struggling to determine which talent I should pursue, which
path I should follow to fulfillment. Once again, I stood and returned to the quote wall.
The words welcomed me warmly and
reminded me of a childhood dream. My fantasy of a day when students will walk
into first period English, look up to the board and read my words. I could not
walk away.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
The Comfort of Pamphlets and Starfish
In her 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth
Strout, a social worker, discusses the sorrows and comfort that residents of
Crosby, Maine, encounter. Before reading the novel, I had always believed that
people find comfort in people. Perhaps I thought that comfort requires words or
an acknowledgement that the other person lives. However, after reading Olive
Kitteridge, I now recognize that people seek comfort in objects and
memories and that such comfort proves fragile. For example, following the death
of her husband, Marlene Bonney sobs to Olive about a basket with trip pamphlets
that she and her husband had put together and mourns how they “made believe we’d
[Marlene and her husband] go places together” while he was ill (179). Strout
highlights the denotation of “made believe” to emphasize that Marlene seeks
comfort in an illusion. Furthermore, by employing a mournful tone, the novelist
stresses Marlene’s pain in seeking relief from her husband’s illness in an
object, and further accentuates the fragility of the woman’s comfort.
Similarly, Anita Harwood lives with the pain of her father’s death and seeks
comfort in a starfish. When redecorating a room, Anita sends her daughters to
collect starfish to attach to curtains. Her daughter, Julie, describes to her
younger sister that their mother’s father “used to bring her starfish” (184). By
highlighting the emotional association Anita has to starfish, Strout implies
that the woman seeks comfort in the starfish as they preserve her father’s
memory. Furthermore, Anita’s attempt to involve her daughters in her personal
comfort implies that she wishes her children to better understand her, and
through her memories with the starfish, acknowledge why her father’s loss pains
her. However, when the starfish begin to smell in the living room, Anita throws
them back into the ocean, releasing “a little scream” when she throws the last
one (185). Through the desperate diction of “scream”, Strout creates a painful tone
and implies that the impermanent nature of Anita’s object of comfort causes her
even greater anguish. Therefore, Strout emphasizes that the memories and
meaning that individuals attach to objects in which they seek comfort proves
painful due to an object’s fragility. Overall, I have realized the danger in
storing memories and seeking comfort in a single object as although it does not
live, when the object must go, I may mourn the fragility of my comfort.
Red Hair and a Little Burst
Last year, when studying at Johns Hopkins, I asked the
security guard in the library-a woman in her sixties with dark brown hair-for directions.
She smiled at me and she explained the way while still keeping watch over the
entry gate to the library. I began to walk away, but she suddenly called me
back over and told me how much she loved my hair and how I reminded her of her
grandson. Taking her phone out of her pocket, she flipped open the cover to
reveal a picture of a little boy with carrot-top red hair holding a large box adorned
with bows and Christmas wrapping paper. I later walked from the library with a
smile on my face for the kind security guard who had shared part of her life
with me. Likewise, in her 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout
highlights the strain and trouble in relationships in the town of Crosby,
Maine. The novelist specifically emphasizes her troubled yet extremely
perceptive character, Olive Kitteridge, and Olive’s belief that while life
depends on big relationships, such as marriages and between a parent and children,
small affinities that she calls “little bursts” also prove important (68). I
agree with this belief of Olive’s as I assert that these “little bursts” exist
to balance and strengthen the larger relationships. For example, Olive defines
a “little burst” as a “friendly clerk” or a “waitress…who knows how you like
your coffee” (69). Strout directly characterizes small affinities as “friendly”
and implies a certain intimacy, a full understanding of one small aspect of an
individual’s life, through the image of the waitress. Therefore, by
highlighting the positive connotation of “friendly”, Strout implies that these “little
bursts” yield less hurt than larger relationships because small affinities do
not require the deep understanding of each individual that larger affinities
necessitate. “Little bursts” still prove important as they still require an understanding,
and in turn, strengthen people in larger relationships’ ability to comprehend
others. Furthermore, following her son’s wedding, Olive steals undergarments and
marks the sweater of her know-it-all daughter-in-law, Suzanne, whom she hates,
reflecting that the action gives Olive “a little burst” (74). Strout highlights
that Olive receives a bit of intimacy with Suzanne through stealing as Olive
may fully understand the self-doubt that the other woman receives from a marked
sweater and missing undergarments. Therefore, the novelist implies that Olive’s
“little burst” with her daughter-in-law limits the strain Suzanne’s self-assurance
may have on Olive’s son and his wife. Overall,
I agree with Olive’s belief in the necessity of “little bursts” as they enable
people to better understand each other, as no one can completely understand
another person. I may never know more about the Hopkins security guard other than
that her red-headed grandson’s eyes shine like Christmas lights as he opens
presents. However, with that understanding, I may knowingly smile when my
grandparents take out their cell phone to show others the picture of their
red-headed grandchild, the one they know so well.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Judgement Call
In her 1977 novel, Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison,
whose parents were deeply influenced by religion, recounts the history of a
man, Solomon, and his flight and its ramifications on a town, Shalimar. Solomon
overcame his enslavement by leaving his numerous children and wife back in
Virginia while he flew back to Africa. Moreover, before his flight, Solomon
attempted to bring his youngest son, Jake, with him. However, Solomon dropped
the child and Jake, after having two children of his own: Macon and Pilate, was
killed for his land. While reading the history of Solomon’s family, his flight,
and the effects of his flight, the similarities between Solomon’s story and the
Bible struck me. Therefore, as I believe these parallels exist, I pose the
following question to Morrison: does Solomon’s represent a god to the people of
Shalimar and Jake, a Jesus? A descendant of Jake, Milkman, celebrates that
Solomon “‘left everyone down on the ground and he sailed’” (328). Morrison employs a tone of awe to highlight
that descendants of Solomon do not resent him for leaving them while he flew,
but rather, they celebrate his flight. Furthermore, the juxtaposition of
Solomon’s flight to the others’ place on the ground differentiates Solomon from
society, and implies an almost divinity in his ability. Furthermore, Susan
Byrd, who resides in Shalimar, admits that everyone in the town “claims kin to
him [Solomon]” (322). Similar to the Christian belief that all are children of
God, all members of the Shalimar town claim relation to Solomon. The novelist
highlights this privilege to imply that the extreme reverence that the
townspeople have for Solomon borders on worship. Moreover, Morrison highlights
that the townspeople respect Solomon’s ability to fly as it gives them hope
that they may overcome their struggles, a faith many Christians have in God. In
addition, Jake’s history bears similarities to Jesus’. Following Jake’s murder
and initially unsuccessful burial, hunters placed his corpse in a cave.
However, after she unknowingly collected her father’s bones from the cave, Pilate
receives constant “visits from him [Jake]” (245). Morrison employs the positive
connotation of “visits” to imply that although the dead visit Pilate, she
accepts her father’s ghost warmly. Similarly, the resurrection of Jesus enabled
a greater faith in God, and Pilate’s visits from her father renew her interest
in her family and its history. Lastly, when finally discovering his family’s
history and his great-grandfather’s flight, Milkman feels “happy as…ever”
(304). By highlighting the positive connotation of “happy” and the sheer joy
that Milkman feels upon discovering the history of Solomon, Morrison implies
that faith and hope make individuals happy. Overall, I question the religious
parallels in Song of Solomon as I believe that Solomon does embody a god
for Shalimar. However, I assert that their belief in him does not stem from
lack of faith in God, as the townspeople are Christian, but rather from the
desire to believe in the possibility of flight.
The Girl and the $250 Shirt
A week ago, while on a mandatory
trip to the King of Prussia Mall during a summer program at Penn, my friend
commented on another shopper, a girl who also participated in our program. He
pointed over in her direction and remarked, “That shirt she bought cost $250.”
After rolling my eyes at the outrageous cost of the article of clothing, my
friend continued, “See, Meghan, that’s why people think making a lot of money
is so important; they want to buy an image.” Similarly, in her 1977 novel, Song
of Solomon, Nobel Prize winner Toni Morrison highlights the greed of both
the wealthy and the poor following the discovery of a characters’ alleged
possession of gold. Milkman, the son of a greedy landlord, Macon, and his poor friend,
Guitar, decide to steal the gold from Macon’s sister, following persuasion from
Macon. By discussing this situation, Morrison explains her view that individuals
place too great of a value on money. For
example, when Milkman reveals the existence of the gold to Guitar, Morrison
states that Guitar could not “resist the lure of…money” (181). The novelist
emphasizes the denotation of “lure” to stress that due to the opportunities for
a heightened status and lavish possessions that money provides, poor individuals,
such as Guitar, value money. Similarly, when a disappointed Macon discovers
that his son did not steal the gold from his sister, Milkman accuses his father
of “‘thinking about that gold for 50 years’” (205). By noting Macon’s current prosperity,
Morrison indirectly characterizes him as greedy and emphasizes the allure of
money for the well-to-do. Furthermore, by employing a critical tone, the
novelist assesses that individuals value money more than they should and
condemns the greed that overprizing money causes. Moreover, Morrison highlights
a conversation between Guitar and Milkman, in which Guitar confesses, “can’t
nobody fly with all that s*** [jewelry, vanity]” (179). Morrison emphasizes her
view of flight as a conquering of obstacles and refusal to submit individual
power to stress that an obsession with money presents great ramifications.
Namely, greed and obsession with status limits success and an individual’s power.
Overall, I agree with Morrison and her view of the world. However, I amend that
people do not overvalue money, but the sense of power they feel when they hold a
$100 bill. But, like Morrison, I believe that this obsession prevents flight by
creating dependence on those who can fuel the fixation. Specifically, the girl
with the $250 shirt, whose father replenishes her debit account.
The Raven
“they [Pilate, Reba,
and Hagar] listened to what he [Milkman] said like bright-eyed ravens,
trembling in their eagerness to catch and interpret every sound” (79).
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In her
1977 novel, Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison, a Nobel Prize winner for her
books on the black community, highlights the eccentric members of Milkman Dead’s
family and society. Specifically, the novelist emphasizes Milkman’s perception
of his family members based on their response to his acts and oddities. Unlike
his immediate family, Milkman’s aunt, Pilate, and cousins, Reba and Hagar, question
him rather than adopt a passive understanding to his actions. Morrison details the
three women’s reactions to Milkman in a passage which highlights their
unwavering desire to understand, which presents the manner in which I hope to
live my life. For example, Milkman
compares the women’s listening to that of “bright-eyed ravens”. Morrison utilizes
the perception of ravens as smart birds and their reputation for solving
complex problems to indirectly characterize the women as intelligent and inquisitive.
Moreover, the novelist emphasizes the ability of ravens to fly to highlight
that the women’s zeal for understanding affords them the power to overcome
obstacles in their lives. Similarly, Morrison highlights the women’s “eagerness
to catch and interpret every sound”. Again, the novelist indirectly
characterizes Milkman’s aunt and cousins as willing to understand, but she also
emphasizes their greater desire for enlightenment on every aspect of Milkman’s
character. Personally, I hope to live my life in the manner that this passage
describes. As I value learning, I hope to always yearn for understanding and
question the actions of not just my family members, but also others.
Furthermore, I desire to shape my own perception of the world based on my
observations of society and its members. Still, I desire most to exploit these
characteristics to enable myself to overcome obstacles in my life and to fly by
understanding the world to the best of my ability.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
What's in a Name?
While reading Amy Waldman’s, The Submission, I often
found myself annotating, in capital letters, IDENTITY. Therefore, while
scanning through my annotations, I began to consider a person’s identity. More
specifically, I asked myself: who defines a person? At first, the answer seemed
simple: a person’s choices and actions shape their character, so clearly, a
person defines himself. However, for characters such as Mohammad Khan and Laila,
societal judgments and prejudice shape the perception of their character. For
example, Laila reveals that following conflict in Iran, her birthplace, her mother
told her “not to tell anyone” her nationality (197). Waldman highlights Laila’s
mother’s warning tone to emphasize that society’s prejudice and fear of other
cultures affects an identity. Furthermore, the novelist recognizes that Laila
must live in fear of the consequences of society’s misconception of her
character due to prejudice. Clearly, the mother’s fear of the public’s bias
emphasizes that society does play a role in defining an identity. Similarly,
during an interview about his life following the memorial controversy, Mohammad
states that he had left America for India to live where “the name Mohammad
wouldn’t be a liability” (330). Waldman highlights the taxing diction of “liability”
to create an oppressive tone and to emphasize that due to Americans’ prejudice
towards his name, Mohammad could not shape his own identity. Furthermore, the
novelist stresses the injustice of Mohammad’s identity, as prejudice does not
define a person’s true character. Overall, The Submission made me
reconsider how I define my own identity. Although I like to believe that I alone
identify myself, I now realize that I must accept the preconceptions of others
and like Mohammad and Laila, I must find success despite judgment.
Zahira's Choice
Following September 11, 2001, many Americans feared Muslims.
Anxiety overwhelmed them as many Americans misinterpreted the goals of Islam, a
peaceful religion. Consequently, fear and anger escalated into hate crimes
aimed toward Muslims as 1,200 more occurred in 2001 than in 2000. Accordingly,
in Amy Waldman’s 2011 novel, The Submission, Zahira Hussain, a victim of
a hate crime, discusses Islam with her attacker, Sean, who pulled off her head
scarf. However, Zahira attempts to educate Sean about Muslims, rather than
criticize him for his actions, and therefore fosters a greater understanding of
her faith. For example, upon hearing Sean’s distaste for her wearing of a head
scarf in America, Zahira states, “‘It’s my choice’” (204). Waldman emphasizes
Zahira’s choice to wear the scarf to stress the inaccuracy of the assumption that
Muslim women in America do not have the freedom of choice. Furthermore, Waldman
indirectly characterizes Zahira as independent, and criticizes Americans who do
not respect the girl’s choice to express her spirituality. Similarly, when
discussing Islam’s concept of the afterlife, Zahira stresses that “‘It’s [the
afterlife] about God. God’” (205). Waldman indirectly characterizes the girl as
pious through her repetition of “God” and stresses that Muslims, like
individuals of other religions, believe in something much greater than themselves.
Therefore, Zahira relates with Sean, and through that similarity, she enables
him to better understand her religion. Due to her approach when confronting
Sean, I favor Zahira. By embracing the country’s xenophobia and fostering
Americans’ understanding of her faith, Zahira achieves the goal that countless support
organizations strive to accomplish. Therefore, the girl inspires me, as her
tactics reveal that acceptance of prejudice and education best create
tolerance.
A Hero Without a Cape
As a child, teachers would ask me to describe my hero. Therefore,
the image I conceived as a child-a superhero with a cape-still resonates with
me today. Nevertheless, as a young adult, I must examine individuals who do not
wear capes and determine what I truly believe makes a hero. After much thought,
I have concluded that heroes do not waver from their beliefs and morals despite
opposition. Therefore, in Amy Waldman’s 2011 novel, The Submission,
which discusses the ramifications of a Muslim man’s selection to design the
9/11 memorial, one widow, Claire Burwell, exhibits true heroism. Claire, a member
of the jury panel for the memorial, argues that despite the designer’s
religion, he should still design the memorial as his design won. Although
Claire personally suffered the loss of her husband in the 9/11 attacks, she
still fights for the garden, even after discovering the religion of the
designer. Therefore, I would like to embody Claire because of her heroism and unwavering
support despite her struggles. For example, Claire mourns that both inside and
outside of the jury, “she was fighting alone” (101). The negative denotation of
“fighting” implies that Claire faces great aversion for her stance on the garden,
and that she stays firm despite this hatred. Therefore, Waldman indirectly
characterizes Claire as resilient and unwavering in her beliefs. Similarly,
Waldman highlights Claire’s support for her family by emphasizing that “William’s
[Claire’s son] vividly imagined garden needed safeguarding” (93). Waldman emphasizes
William’s support for the garden to imply that Claire continues to fight for
Khan’s design as it provides comfort for her children. Therefore, the novelist
indirectly characterizes Claire as loving and supportive to emphasize that the
mother fights for her children despite obstacles. Lastly, when the American
public rejects the garden due to Khan’s religion, she reminds them that “if you
let them change you, they’ve [the 9/11 attackers] won” (98). Waldman indirectly
characterizes Claire as strong and determined and implies that Claire will not
change her beliefs regardless of the struggles that she faces. Furthermore,
Waldman highlights the widow’s belief that the attackers win when Americans
change their values to imply that Claire will stay moral to support her family
and country. Overall, I hope to embody Claire as I greatly respect her for her unwavering
support for both her family and her beliefs. To me, she not only exemplifies
heroism, but also shapes my definition of a hero.
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